The college search is typically an intensive, stressful, analytical escapade to unveil every hidden gem and every Rhodes Scholar such and such school produced. In this respect, my hunt for a utopian university was atypical. At the meager age of eleven I began investing my allotted computer time in researching my future--my quite distant future. The Ivy League beaconed me although six more years of elementary and secondary schooling had to be endured before I could jounce into Harvard Yard, flounce onto the site of Yale Harvest, or bounce into Princeton University’s Indian Dance Troupe. Immediately, the idea of Yale as my alma mater imprinted on my mind. I attempted in vain to memorize every residential hall on the campus map; insisted my parents detour to New Haven on the road from Boston to Plainsboro, NJ; and replicated Handsome Dan complemented by the omnipotent Y to adorn my plain pastel walls. In the coming years, my passion for the Ivy League dwindled as enthusiasts of the liberal arts assaulted their elders’ reputations with claims of massive student bodies that hinder student development, involvement, and enjoyment. Yet I seek the unique. Albeit liberal arts are exonerated for alternative prospectives to learn, opportunity may lack. Throughout my years of study, opportunity and fear of lack thereof is the mother of my modern-day accomplishments. As I registered for new courses when entering ninth grade, I enriched my vocabulary with the word “age-ist”. Psychology: Junior or Senior Standing Required. Journalism: Juniors and Seniors Only. Red tape. Blatantly admitted, age as a sign of merit is an irrational notion. A neighborhood crack dealer of twenty years likely lacks the credentials of a third-grader a few paces down the block. So why must age so often define us? A high school sophomore can succeed in college courses if she wishes. Of this fact I am certain; I am proof. Electing to immerse myself in the subjects I yearned to study, I enrolled in the post-secondary program at Kent State University. Comparative Religions was the debut of my tertiary education. I finally slashed the red tape. The core of my being–an innate desire to learn–felt fulfilled. This principle captivates not only my academic environment, but my extracurricular life as well. I still await a dancer near Hudson, Ohio who jiggles with black fire and colorful costume like the tribesmen of Africa. To enroll in a university, this thirst for freedom to educate myself on multitudes of cultural, academic, and social knowledge must be quenched –through provoking Master Teas, dance troupes, and small seminars. For the duration of my life I have quarreled with red tape. Yale University is the Oz where I may exile the red tape curse for eternity.